


Put a Pin(feather) In It

by cassieoh_draws (cassieoh), MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Cherubim, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Canon-Typical Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Cliffhanger, Community: Do It With Style Events, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fighting! in the clouds, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28847700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh_draws, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: Demons cannot fly.  The ability, like so many other things, was ripped away from them during the Fall, pulled out of them by the Archangel Michael herself.Crowley still dreams of flying, misses the rush of the wind in his wings, the feeling of freedom that comes from soaring through the sky or through space.  A thing he admitted in a moment of weakness, drunk in the bookshop backroom back in the 19th century.  He still regrets that show of weakness.This is a story about learning to fly and learning to heal, about choosing one’s fate and one’s side.  And, maybe most of all, a story about how the love we want is the love that we deserve after all.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 139
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. losing feathers (we won't mind)

**Author's Note:**

> From Bucky:  
> Hello friends! Welcome to one of the things I have been the most excited about this year! This is for the Do It With Style Reverse Bang, and my wonderful partner, cassieoh, has done some absolutely GORGEOUS art for this fic and I cannot wait for all of you to see it!
> 
> This will have some violence and some hurt/comfort and eventually a bit of sexy times (far off in chapter 3). UPDATE: Chapter 2 is ready to go but will be posted this coming Sunday, February 7th and then follow the 2 week schedule. Me and Cassieoh both have multiple RBB projects and zine projects so that schedule is going to work better for us <3
> 
> from cassieoh: yall. this idea was a thinly veiled excuse to let me paint wings and clouds and bucky took it and turned it into something genuinely amazing, i cannot wait for you to see what's coming <3 <3
> 
> content warning for an single (1) butt.

In the still early days of the world, in the time of Irad and Kenan, generations removed from Adam and Eve’s children, but when humanity is still small — a demon goes on a journey. In the days where things are still pristine and new, untouched and unmarred by human hands that will spread and shape and carve their way into the world — a demon seeks solitude.

A pilgrimage, one to the top of the world. To the snow and ice that are so antithetical to his existence, to the near-frozen part of the North, to the frigid waters there. The air is sharp in his lungs, far too crisp and cutting. Light pollution (a concept that belongs to the far distant future, not to now) mars nothing here. Stars sparkle like a million diamonds, twinkling and bright. The lights of what will be someday known as the aurora borealis dance in the night sky, painting colors and loops, slithering across the deep blue-black velvet of night.

Demons lose a lot when they Fall, of course. Her love is ripped out, severed from them with the sharp end of a sword. But they lose so much more. They lose the memories of friends, of compatriots, of parts of their day to day existence.

Crawly still has flashes of memories. Of shining platinum curls and soft steel-grey eyes, but no face to which they can be attached. He has memories of spinning firmament into stardust, molding and shaping it in his hands until it glows bright in and of itself, suffused with the deep love he had for his creations, but he could not say for sure which of the ones he sees are his. He remembers wind, the feel of this new thing called an “atmosphere” as it threaded through his feathers, as he soared through these newly formed “clouds”, before everything went to shit.

Before he lost everything over a few sodding questions.

His toes curl in the icy snow and he breathes deep, allowing his form to shift. Night-dark scales creep along his legs, his arms, his neck. His body shifts and remolds, cursed to crawl on his belly once more, but this time of his own volition.

He glides through the snow, tongue scenting the air, finding the sharp tang of salty water as he slips into the sea. His eyes fixate above, on the dancing lights of the Northern skies, on the stars that he helped to hang. The nebula and galaxies that spin out and spiral, wheels upon wheels, painting the sky in colors that humans don’t have words for yet.

He drifts lazily in the water, lets himself stop thinking and just go. Lets himself glide, trusting the waves to take him where they will.

For one glorious moment, it feels like flying again.

“Crowley, are you listening?”

“Hmm?”

It’s 1862, the dawn of a new age in Victorian England. Or something close enough to it, in any case. Crowley is spread out on the backroom sofa in the bookshop, lounging as though trying to take up as much space as inhumanly possible. He twists his cane absentmindedly in his hand, watching the silver head glint in the candlelight.

Crowley’s mind had been worlds away, back in the frozen North, back with the aurora. Why his thoughts had drifted to days spent gliding through frozen water is beyond him, but he and Aziraphale are both well in their cups at this point. Could’ve been anything, when you have millennia of memories to fall back on. Doesn’t take much to jog a mind.

“Flying, Crowley; Upstairs says demons can’t anymore, izzat true?” Aziraphale sways slightly in his seat as he asks, and Crowley feels a spike of anxiety. This isn’t something they talk about, things before the Fall and the difference between angels and demons. They’d agreed long ago that the differences were minor at best, and that suited Crowley just fine.

“Course I can fly, daft bastard.” Crowley scoffs out the lie with venom on his tongue, hoping that it hides any emotions that might come spilling out. “You’re drunk.”

“ _You_ are most certainly drunk. I’m perfectly in control of my facili… facsimi… fa… At any rate, I’m fine.”

“Right, that’s why you’re ‘bout to fall out of your chair then?” Crowley raises an eyebrow over the frame of his glasses, the dim light making things hard to see, but he keeps them on anyway. Even after sixty years, this is _Aziraphale’s_ space, not his. He doesn’t have a home here, and he never will.

Opposite sides, despite the arrangement.

_Know your place, demon,_ a familiar voice hisses in his ear; an angelic timbre tinged with a hatred that he’s never actually heard there, but imagines exists all the same. When exactly Aziraphale became the voice of his own self hatred, he doesn’t remember; but he also doesn’t remember a time when Aziraphale’s voice didn’t narrate his inner turmoil either.

“Well, if you’re as _not drunk_ as you say,” Crowley says, grabbing the bottle of claret by the neck and extending it across the way. “Might as well have another.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale says with a smile and pink cheeks that remind Crowley of Paris (well, one particular time in Paris, in any case). Aziraphale reaches out for the bottle, grabbing it by the neck and Crowley’s fingers with it. The moment stretches in the warmth of skin on skin for the first time since physical expressions of affection were the norm between men of their supposed statures. Crowley’s selfish heart skips a beat, pulse jumping under his skin in a way he hopes Aziraphale either cannot feel or is too drunk to remember.

“Terribly sorry,” Aziraphale says, finally breaking the moment as he takes the bottle and shakily pours himself a new glass, “Maybe I’m a bit drunker than I thought.”

“S’fine,” Crowley says, taking the bottle as it’s passed back, “Not a big deal.”

The silence shifts heavily between them, daring the both of them to break. Daring Crowley to voice what he can’t say, daring Aziraphale to confront what he surely must know by now.

_Fuck this,_ Crowley thinks as he tilts the wine to his lips, guzzling it straight from the bottle. His coordination is off, and it ends up spilling out over his chin.

“Shit!” He sputters as he sits up quickly, snapping a towel into existence to clean himself up, muttering under his breath about stupid bottles that don’t know their place. He’s perfectly content in his annoyance until he hears snickering coming from his companion.

Crowley turns slowly, catching Aziraphale’s eye, and the snickering turns to full belly laughs as the angel loses his composure completely. Crowley stares at him for a moment, well beyond confused, before the infectious nature of Aziraphale’s laughter takes him and he starts to giggle of his own accord, quickly building until the both of them are laughing like complete idiots.

“Wh-what on Earth is so bloody funny?” He manages to ask between loud peals of laughter as he slides from the couch onto the floor.

“You could—“ Aziraphale is doubled over in his chair, hand on his side, clearly laughing hard enough for it to hurt, “You— you—“

“It’s ok, take your time,” Crowley says as he reaches out to pat the toe of Aziraphale’s shoe because it seems the logical thing to do. This only causes Aziraphale to laugh harder before finally calming himself with short and jerking breaths.

“You could’ve just miracled it away… But you summoned a bloody _towel!”_ Aziraphale’s laughter rips through him anew, even louder than before. Crowley falls to his back, prone on the rug staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling as he cackles louder than he has in ages.

By the time the laughter dies down, Aziraphale is sitting on the ground, too. Crowley doesn’t know when he ended up there, nor does he know how much time has passed.

“Angel, I think we’re both well and truly sloshed.”

“I should say so, drunker than I thought. Maybe we should sober up?”

Aziraphale moves to stand, to bring the evening to an end, and that just won’t do. Before he can think better of it, Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s wrist. He turns to look at the angel, mentally blaming the alcohol for his lack of inhibition where he usually would be able to show restraint.

“Nah, not yet.”

Aziraphale just shrugs, and lays back on the ground. He makes no move to extract his wrist from Crowley’s grip, so Crowley makes no move to let go. They lie on the ground in silence for what feels like forever, before Crowley clears his throat.

“We can’t.” Crowley finally says on a cracked voice.

“What?”

“Demons. Can’t actually fly. One of the things She took from us, when Michael cast us out.” Crowley isn’t sure what makes him say it, what makes him backtrack on his words from earlier and tell Aziraphale this painful truth about himself. Aziraphale’s wrist slips from his hand, and he misses the warmth of it, the sure and steady beat of Aziraphale’s pulse against his fingers. He prepares himself for the inevitable, for Aziraphale to mention how much work he has to do with an expectant look that tells Crowley the evening is over.

But Aziraphale doesn’t, just turns onto his side, props his head on one hand. Crowley can see him, through the onyx lens on the side of his glasses. Can see Aziraphale studying him, cataloguing things like the fussy old bibliophile he is.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says with something akin to pity. It makes bile rise in Crowley’s throat. He doesn’t want that. Especially not from Aziraphale. “I can’t imagine not being able to fly.”

“Yeah, well, part of being a demon. Lose your grace, lose your memories, clip your bloody wings.” Crowley’s eyes sting with tears he didn’t ask for. Still, they track down his face against his will. In a perfect world, the candlelight would be low enough Aziraphale doesn’t see.

The soft pad of a finger against his cheek tells him he isn’t so lucky. Aziraphale wipes a tear from Crowley’s face, soft and gentle, as though Crowley might break at any moment.

“Don’t want your damn pity, angel.”

“Not pity…” Aziraphale trails off, unable to say what it actually is. This thing that hangs heavy in the air between them every time they’re together will go unnamed, probably until the end of time. Crowley knows what he wants it to be, knows what it can’t possibly be.

Crowley curses himself for hoping, because those two things are the same.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale finally says after a long silence. It’s whispered so softly that Crowley nearly misses it in the cacophony of his own useless thoughts.

“Whassat?”

“Thank you, Crowley…” Aziraphale is just as quiet, if not more sure, “…for trusting me and telling me this.”

“Why wouldn’t I trust you? You’re an angel.” Crowley says, matter-of-fact as anything. It’s a bit too close to a confession, and he has the sudden unmistakable feeling of overstaying his welcome. He sits up with a groan, peeling off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “I think maybe, maybe we should sober up now.”

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale readily agrees.

There’s a shimmer of two opposing miracles, and full wine bottles in the cellar and on the tables, waiting for the next time. Aziraphale follows him to the door, a gesture that he hasn’t done in the past. Crowley pulls on his overcoat and his gloves, grips the head of his cane a bit too tight as he opens the door to the cool of a September night.

“Crowley, wait—“ Aziraphale says suddenly “—You forgot your hat.”

Crowley turns just in time for Aziraphale to place the stovepipe on his head, positioning it perfectly, taking a bit longer to do so than necessary.

“There you are,” Aziraphale says quietly, with a smile that has an earnestness to it that Crowley rarely gets the chance to see. “Mind how you go, my dear.”

“Right, I’ll see you later,” Crowley says as he steps out into the crisp autumn night, feeling lighter than before as he walks home. There’s a feeling of change in the air, both for the seasons and the tides of life. Maybe, maybe he isn’t crazy to hope after all? _Mind how you go_ sure does sound a lot like _be safe._

The happiness bubbling inside of him begets fear as he walks through the cobbled streets. By the time he reaches his lodgings, he has a fully formed plan in his mind. He can’t ever lose Aziraphale, he’ll die keeping him safe first. He just needs the angel’s help.

He just hopes that Aziraphale is willing to help him get what he needs, that it isn’t too much to ask for. Holy water is hard to come by for a demon.

Golden sunlight streams through the windows of the bookshop the next morning, painting the space in hues of yellow and orange. A suffusing warmth that is antithetical to the weather outside as fall chills the air.

Aziraphale decides it would be an excellent day for inventory. He always rides a sort of high after Crowley’s visits, and it’s better to work through it than to focus on it. The shop will stay closed while he counts his stock, and it can be a welcome distraction from the happiness that buzzes just beneath his skin. Nevermind the fact that he can’t stop humming to himself, or the spring in his step as he bounces among the shelves — _bounces_ , really, it’s becoming a problem.

But last night… last night Crowley had trusted him. Something long settled has shifted, and Aziraphale isn’t quite sure how to meet it headlong. There was something in the crack in Crowley’s voice, in the gentle way Crowley gripped his wrist. Maybe something in the wine, while he’s keeping score. There was a spark in the air, there between them in the doorway. And oh, how Aziraphale had wanted to lean in and kiss the uncertainty off Crowley’s lips…

He’s deep in the stacks as well as his thoughts when he hears the bell above the door jingle. “Terribly sorry, we’re quite closed today. If you’ll come back tomorrow, I’ll be happy to assist—“

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

“Ah… Archangel Michael… what a,” he swallows thickly, “What a pleasant surprise.” He extends his arm for a handshake, earning him a sneer. Michael says nothing, just pokes around the till. Touching things that shouldn’t be touched, flipping through the financial books. Not scrutinizing, just touching. Touching his things, here in his space, in his bookshop.

“I didn’t think I was due for an inspection for another decade,” Aziraphale says, tamping down the fearful tremor in his voice. He steels himself, adjusting his waistcoat. Pulls himself together. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Michael doesn’t answer, just picks up a statue of Eros that Aziraphale keeps on his desk. She turns it over in her hands, judgmental look on her face. As though someone just told a rather offensive joke or opened a particularly rank package of Limburger.

“Humans…” she says with a grimace “…not happy enough with what we are, so they make new gods. It’s barbaric.” She drops the statue to the desk with a thud and Aziraphale winces. “Did you know, something smells vaguely evil in here.”

“Well, it _is_ a bookshop, I have to keep all manner of tomes here. Could be the prophecy books, the misprint bibles. England is very into occultism these days, and if I am to blend in—“ Aziraphale’s stammering is stalled by a raise of Michael’s hand.

“Aziraphale, do you know why humans have painted me so often? In so many ways and with so many different faces? Are you aware, with all your supposed _knowledge,_ what all of these things have in common?”

“I—I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest.” Michael is stepping closer to him and he wants to run. The Archangels have always exuded an aura of punishment and terror, in the confines of his bookshop it’s almost palpable.

“Every image, every picture of me that the humans have ever made, from pigment on cave walls to mosaic to brush and oil on canvas — every last one, even on the Sistine frescos, I am holding a weapon. And do you know _why_ , Aziraphale?”

“Because… Because you banished Lucifer from Heaven?”

“Because, Aziraphale, I banished _all_ of them from Heaven.” She’s fully in his space now, crowding him towards the bookshelves. Like a lion stalking its prey. “Every last demon, before you were even a twinkle in Her many eyes.”

“Yes, quite properly terrifying...very scary,” Aziraphale admits as Michael stares him down, an accusatory gaze fixing him in place.

“It would do you well, Principality, to remember that while you cavort with humans and…whoever _else_ you might associate with.” Michael falls silent and the words weigh heavy between them. The implication is not lost on Aziraphale. His heart races with terror and he silently hopes that Crowley is far, far away. “But,” Michael says suddenly, backing off and snapping the tension in half, “I suppose I should be thanking you. Heaven knows I wouldn’t want to be here among these horrid creatures.”

Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief as Michael heads for the door. His heart sinks with his own carelessness, the weight of his mistakes.

“Oh, and Aziraphale,” Michael calls over her shoulder as she opens the door, “Do watch yourself.”

She leaves and Aziraphale relaxes, though a sense of being watched still lurks over him. The shop suddenly feels very silent and very cold, a stark contrast to the night before. He huffs out a breath and resigns himself to a cup of tea. He’s due to meet Crowley this Friday at the park, and he needs to figure out how to tell him the Arrangement is over.

They’ve been lucky so far, but if that luck runs out… Aziraphale can’t bear to think about it.


	2. I just wanted to get back to where you are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the world doesn't end, an Archangel seeks retribution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to hapaxnym for the beta read and to fenrislorsrai and d20owlbear for help with fight coordination, I owe y'all so much!
> 
> As always all the thanks in the world to my wonderful partner cassieoh who's amazing art literally blows my mind every time I see it <3

There is a park, and there is a question.

There is a fight, and there is a split.

Aziraphale goes back to his shop. He makes himself tea, because that’s what one does when one is devastated. He cries for what is lost, for the ‘what-ifs’ never to be answered. His heart aches, despite knowing he has done the right thing. He lets himself mourn, in the proper British way that he prefers to do things — not loud and raucous, but private and quiet. When his eyes have dried up and there’s nothing left to come out, he settles back to his inventory and his shop.

The arrangement is at an end; but at least Crowley will be safe.

Crowley goes back to his lodgings. He screams at the neighbors, screams at the plants, even screams at himself in the mirror. A fool to believe, a fool to think things were changing. A simple request met with such anger and hatred, the thing he has always feared. Well, he knows his place now. He sinks into his mattress, because that’s what one does when one is devastated. Aims to sleep as long as it takes for his heart to piece itself back together.

The arrangement is at an end; but at least Crowley knows the score.

Time continues on, merciless in its passage. Nothing one can do about it, all things considered.

There is a church and a bomb, and there is hope.

There is a thermos and a neon-lit street, and there is understanding.

There is a boy and a job to do and an apocalypse to stop.

There is a bookshop on fire.

There is a Bentley also on fire.

There is a loss, and there is a gain.

There are trials, and then there is freedom.

And finally, standing at the end of all things, there is a world spared and saved.

An angel goes back to his shop, resolute in having made the right choice, in having chosen the right side. He makes himself tea, because that is what one does when one is exhausted, and resolves to tell Crowley the truth of his feelings. Soon.

A demon goes back to his flat, looking forward to tomorrow for the first time in forever, having the angel by his side at last. He sinks into his mattress, because that is what one does when one is exhausted, and resolves to tell Aziraphale the truth of his feelings. Soon.

There’s a crack in the blackout blinds of his flat in Mayfair. It’s not a large crack, pretty standard for blinds, really. But some mornings, like this one, it makes the sun hit his eyelids just right in a way he can’t ignore. Crowley groans and squints against it, hissing at the light when he cracks an eye open. He buries himself further in the blankets, turns away and curls up, chasing the fleeting release of sleep as it leaves him. Crowley struggles against the incoming tide of wakefulness with no success. He huffs as he throws the blanket off, staring at the ceiling.

“Bloody sunlight…”

He knows he should be grateful, every day is a day that the world had not been previously allotted. One month ago the world should’ve burned in fire and battle, scorched to cinders with nothing left. But instead it spins on. Keeps going despite everything, just as stubborn as he is. Makes him a little proud, if he’s honest.

He rubs his eyes, takes in the color of the room. It’s always grey and concrete; the colors muted and flushed in blues and yellows until he’s awake enough for his eyes to adjust and take their more human form. Crowley sits up on the edge of the bed, slips his feet into his slippers, and heads to his kitchen.

The coffee is perfectly brewed, because he expects it to be. Not too bitter or too dark, just the right temperature. Never mind that he’s never once plugged the coffee pot in. Coffee is something that appears in the morning; it should be there, so it is. He blinks a few times as he leans against the counter, surveying the kitchen for any speck of dirt. There is none, wouldn’t dare be. He drinks his coffee slowly, lets it burn on his tongue and bring him to life. Lets it warm his cold and ancient bones. Say what you will for the humans, but they know how to harness a good bean now and again.

The coffee cup is put in the sink, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. It will be back in the cabinet and clean before the end of the day, because he expects it to be. Another day like every other before it, here in the slow haze of the after.

Crowley crosses the threshold from the kitchen to the living room, black silk pajamas morphing into skinny denim jeans and a tight black henley as he does. His feet shift into his usual snakeskin as the soft padding of feet turns into the loud and echoing click of boots. 

A little atmosphere, maybe. Something different for the day at hand, to break the monotony and put him in a different frame of mind. He crosses to the turntable, to his collection of soul albums rarely touched. He takes out an old Sam Cooke, turns it over in his hands before settling it on the record player. 

“Mr. Soul, 1963…” he mutters under his breath, “Always a good one.” 

Pops and cracks fill the air, soon followed by a swinging beat and Sam’s voice. Crowley closes his eyes, lets the music wash over him, lets it move his feet. Not a lot, just enough to get his blood pumping. Demons don’t do anything as unseemly as dance in their living rooms. But, he reckons, he’s not much of a demon anymore.

“ _Chains of love, have tied my heart to you, chains of love have made me feel so blue_ ,” he sings along. It’s out of tune but no one is here to hear. Today, he thinks, will be the day. It’s been a month of silently stolen glances and hands brushing across wine bottles and if he waits one more day he knows it’ll drive him insane.

Today he’s going to come clean, he’s going to tell Aziraphale how he feels, and whatever happens after that is whatever happens after that.

He saunters in rhythm to the music, grabs his plant mister off the ornate marble desk as he makes his way to the plant room. The chorus of shaking foliage spurs him on, and he sings louder as he mists them and inspects the leaves.

“ _Are you gonna leave me, are you gonna make me cry? The chains are gonna haunt me until the day I die…_ ”

There’s a particularly belligerent Calathea that’s been giving him trouble the last few weeks, and he grips the pot firmly, ready to issue his threats, when he feels it rip through him; the tearing in reality that screams trouble. All those wards they set, in the days after the trials... _this_ was their point. This was the reason, so they would know the moment something happened.

The terra-cotta pot shatters when Crowley drops it. He sinks to his knees as his heart starts to race, a familiar panic setting in. That won’t do right now; he rises to his feet and heads for the door. For the bookshop.

Something has happened to Aziraphale.

Through the flat, Sam Cooke drones on, expounding on the chains of love.

“ _Please won’t you set me free, ‘cause I can’t stand these chains around me, unless you’re here with me…“_

Everything in the air is new. Fresh with another day, another opportunity. Aziraphale wishes he could say he’s been brave, but he hasn’t yet. His thoughts these days are consumed by yellow eyes and red hair, by a stiff drawl and a mismatched walk.

He was supposed to be brave. He should have said something by now.

At the same time, it’s nice to go slow. It’s nice to have these small concessions —fingers brushing over a wine bottle, standing too close at the park, subtle things— to acclimate himself to what he really wants. He’s always been a slow mover, and Crowley has always been accepting of that. This new world shouldn’t be any different.

Still, there’s a spring in his step as he shelves the new arrivals, making the displays inviting — _inviting!_ Of all things! Who knows? Strange new world that this is, maybe he’ll even sell one or two of them.

He makes his way to the backroom to another box of his acquisitions. It happens while he’s going through them: the cold snap in the air, the jolt of electricity through him as the wards on the shop break. There’s a crashing and the unmistakable sound of broken glass as Aziraphale grabs the nearest item that could serve as a weapon. The fireplace poker makes a scraping sound against the other implements as it slides against the metal of its container, the screech of iron against steel making him wince. He grips it tight, holding it close to his side as he heads for the front of the shop.

What he sees could be compared to a fire, and the thought is sobering. Six great and large wings, patterned in reds and oranges and yellows. They’d inspired more than a few myths in their time, of dragons and griffins and notably the phoenix. 

“Archangel Michael.” Aziraphale says, matter of fact and unafraid. “Am I to assume this is not a social call?”

Michael’s face is dotted with flecks of gold, the disdain on her features palpable from here. This is an Archangel consumed with anger, an Archangel out for vengeance. The air around her pulses with holy energy, papers swirl and leap around the room as though in a windstorm. Broken glass from the door crunches gratingly underneath her boots. But Aziraphale is a principality, was a cherub before that; protection is what he does, and now that he has something to protect, he will stand tall and firm against her anger.

“I heard about your trial, about you walking through Hellfire,” Michael sneers in a voice of multitudes. It rings in stereo around Aziraphale. There is a reason that angels used to tell humans to Be Not Afraid. “Choosing the side of a _demon_. I’m disappointed in you, Aziraphale.”

“I will not apologize for my choices.”

“I don’t want an apology, _soldier_. I’m here to finish the job. And I will take great pride in doing so for Heaven.” A flash of light and Michael’s swords are drawn. Two swords, burning with holy flame so hot and deep that it’s shifted from red to blue, scorching the wood around her.

She shouts as she lunges towards him, swords high and teeth bared, knocking him back against a shelf with a cascade of books. He blocks with the poker but feels a searing pain from the ether, a deep gash cut into his true body on the ethereal plane. Aziraphale cries out and shoves Michael away, letting his cherubic elements shift and turn until they exist in the physical realm. A ram, an eagle, and a bull - shifting in and out of focus. The holy ichor drips from the bull’s face to the floorboards, puffs of steam pushing through its wide nostrils on every breath. The eagle’s feathers bristle as Aziraphale’s wings manifest, bright and pearlescent in the early light of morning. They stir up the dust motes and shove knickknacks to the floor as he flaps and stretches them out.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. You could just leave well enough alone. Turn around, walk out of my shop with your dignity and pride intact.” It is not a plea, it’s an ultimatum. Aziraphale is done running, and has been ever since he slipped into a bathtub of Holy Water wearing Crowley’s face. He recalls Michael’s face then, and the fear that resided there. 

If he must, he’ll make her feel that fear again.

“You were the best and the brightest, and you’ve fallen so far.” Michael says as she points the longer of the two swords towards him. “You could have been _great_. You could have been so much more than this!”

Aziraphale lets the words settle heavy in the air between them, as he thinks back on the years and on the time spent on Earth. Of how he never wanted to be a soldier, never wanted to hurt anyone. All he ever wanted to do was to live. And he has lived so much in these last 6,000 years, so much more than any Archangel could understand. He knows exactly who he is and who he wants to be. He is Aziraphale, owner and proprietor of this book shop, friend of the demon Crowley, and firmly entrenched on the side of humanity. 

And that is a certainty he will fight for until his very last breath.

“So this is how it must be?”

“It is.” Michael is sure and steady, fire in her gaze, the anger of millennia, the so-called righteous fury of Heaven. She has not changed at all. She is the enforcer that she’s always been.

“Quite right then.” Aziraphale concentrates and holy fire sparks along the iron of the poker, not his sword but just as good. He doesn’t need a sword to deal with Michael. The eagle’s head cries out and he flaps his wings, kicking off the ground with a burst of energy that topples books and furniture, soaking the entire shop in holy light and energy. He bursts through the roof of the shop, straight through the floor of his flat above, wood splintering around him and stone crashing down behind him. Michael follows with a loud and guttural screech. 

He heads for the South, for the cliffs on the coast. There will be no collateral damage if he can help it. Besides, Crowley is in London, and if something happened to him… It doesn’t bear thinking about.

Thunderheads are coming in off the horizon, spurred on by the fury of his and Michael’s dueling anger. He spares a glance towards Mayfair as London fades into the background, hoping that he’ll see London and Crowley again.

The streets of London blur around him as Crowley floors the gas pedal on the Bentley. His only thought, his only goal, is to make it to the bookshop and find Aziraphale. He can’t let it happen again, he won’t let it happen again.

_Wherever you are, I’ll come to you._

His own words from a month ago, feeling ancient as they rattle around his skull. And he meant it. Anywhere and everywhere. Depths of the ocean, Alpha Centauri, even to the Great Beyond - it doesn’t matter, he’ll find Aziraphale.

The Bentley screeches to a halt in front of the bookshop, rain falling now in sheets. It’s too familiar, too close to the last time he’d driven over in a true panic. But no flames paint the sky this time, no smoke and no burnt parchment, but what meets him isn’t much better.

The first thing Crowley notices is the door ripped off the hinges, like someone tackled it down to get in. The wards are in tatters, and their edges sting as he approaches. Books are scattered everywhere, furniture upended. Rain falls through a gaping hole in the ceiling, a stark contrast to the fires of the last time he’d happened upon a bookshop in ruin. There are scorch marks near the till that he can see from here. He takes a tentative step onto the fallen door, and recoils immediately.

The ground of Aziraphale’s bookshop has been consecrated, and it burns against the ball of his foot. Rules out Hell; this is Heavenly intervention. And the only beings of Heaven powerful enough to consecrate ground are Archangels —with a capital A.

Crowley’s heart skips a beat. The bookshop has always been a place of refuge, a place of sanctuary for the both of them. From everything, for as long as it has existed. He can’t step foot in now, can barely look at it. His hands start to shake as he finally makes himself move, turning back to the Bentley and crossing the street without quite being aware of doing so.

“Shit.” Crowley curses as he slams the car door, engine starting without him ever turning a key. He shoots a glare over his shoulder, watches the door jump back into place and knows the skylight has also sorted itself out. The damage inside will still be there, but at least no one will be poking around Aziraphale’s precious first editions until they get back. “Shit, shit, _shit._ ” 

Crowley peels out of the parking space and immediately into traffic, ignoring the honking of oncoming cars and the shouting of the pedestrians. He reaches out with his demonic side, on the other plane of existence where his true form resides. It’s not hard to find Aziraphale when he’s in trouble. He’s done it before, dozens of times at this point. The angel has a habit of getting into situations he can’t quite get himself out of, and Crowley has a habit of showing up in the eleventh hour.

And then he feels it: an angel sized-blip in the fabric of space and time. Aziraphale’s form is always bright and blinding, with a tinge of Earl Grey and vanilla and the unmistakable undercurrent of moldy books that’s followed him since bloody Alexandria. But it’s different this time, it’s changed. There’s a tear in it now, an open wound pulsing into the space between all things, where humans couldn’t begin to comprehend the infinitude of it. Aziraphale is hurt. 

“Fuck!” Crowley shouts as he slams his fist against the dashboard, turning the wheel sharply and taking a course due South, following the beacon that always leads him back to Aziraphale, and hoping to anyone who will listen that he isn’t too late.

Aziraphale weaves through the forests and buildings, keeping as close to the ground as he dares, making his way towards the cliffs of Dover. He’s made to endure, made to outlast; it’s why Michael recruited him in the first place all those millennia ago. She’s made for speed, and he can’t outrun her; all he can hope is to throw her off.

She gains on him quickly, but his four heads give him an advantage, letting him see her coming and redirect course. He can feel it, the moment Crowley realizes he’s gone — it shakes him to his core, but he keeps flying; keeps dragging Michael further and further from the humans he’s sworn to protect. Michael nearly lands a blow, just outside of Whitfield, his injuries preventing the bull from focusing on her enough to see her coming. He dodges at the last moment, flying upwards quickly before continuing on his way.

He finally reaches the ocean, away from human eyes and human lives. He soars out over the water and turns to face her head on, poker held in front of him in his usual fighting stance. The orange holy fire crackles along the length of it, rain instantly turning to steam as it lands in the flames with a sizzling sound.

Michael approaches, breath heavy and labored. Her swords grow bright blue, a much hotter flame than his own, but he does not fear. He stands firm, his innumerable eyes trained on her, anticipating her next move.

“You were my prodigy, Aziraphale! I trained you myself!” She screams, hair falling loose out of her elegant braid, eyes glowing gold with rage and humiliation. “You were to protect them! And you failed them! You failed _me_! Made me a laughingstock in the eyes of the other Archangels! And you don’t even care!”

“If free will is a failing, and if love is a failing,” he shouts back, “Then everything we stood for was for naught. And if that is the case, I would rather die here than be counted among your ranks.”

Michael lets out a guttural scream, the kind that echoes into infinity in a way that human ears would not comprehend. She kicks off of the cliffside headed straight for him. He dives low, skimming just above the water, keeping the eagle’s eyes trained on her as she dives. Before she can connect he snaps his wings out full, catching an updraft along the cliffs and shooting upwards, landing a glancing blow on one of her wings as he does.

She attempts to return the strike, but hits only air as his momentum carries him away. The blade passes close (too close) to the ram’s face, the heat of it sizzling in the ram’s fleece. He spins around again, keeping her in his sightlines, determined not to lose focus.

The blow to Michael’s wing knocks her into the same updraft and throws her off balance, but she rights herself quickly. Her feathers are singed and knocked askew, but she shows no signs of slowing down; she only pushes harder and strikes at him with her swords, overcome with anger.

Aziraphale blocks as best he can, bracing the flat of the poker against the palm of his free hand and blocking Michael as she slashes downwards with both swords. The mingling fire grows white hot, and the metal sparks with the effort of both of their strengths. With a scream accompanied by a bray, bleet, and shriek from his three aspects, Aziraphale beats his wings as hard as he can, pushing him forward and throwing her backwards.

“You can still leave, still give up now!” Aziraphale shouts as he rolls his neck. “If you run, I won’t pursue you!” 

“As long as you remain alive, there is a blemish on Heaven’s good name!” Michael shouts back, crossing her swords in front of her. “I can’t leave until you’re dead!”

“So be it then, my old friend,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

They rush towards each other, weapons drawn. There’s a clash in the middle, a thunderclap of sound that shakes the very foundations of the Earth as they do. The rams teeth manage to clamp down on the shorter of Michael’s swords, the longer is held still in the hook of the poker. A stalemate as they both struggle to break, to get the upper hand. Aziraphale’s muscles burn with the effort of it, and he knows if something doesn’t happen soon, he’ll lose this fight.

From the corner of his eye, a dark shadow looms.

The air is heavy with ozone as Crowley speeds along the coast, pushing the Bentley harder than he ever has before. The rain falls on the windshield in sheets, visibility near zero. The windscreen wipers move as fast as they can, but their attempts are futile. Crowley’s sunglasses are tossed onto the passenger seat. They’re worse than useless right now, while he’s soaked to the bone and his hair is dripping water into his face.

In the distance he sees them out over the water. A burning blue aura clashing with Aziraphale’s bright white one. He can’t make out the actual shapes, just two balls of light pulling back and then clashing together again; like some fucked up gravitational dance. The way stars used to crash together, back when he was shaping nebulae in the Before Times. They cut through the gray of the atmosphere, and each time they meet it sends a shockwave through the countryside that shakes the very foundations of the Earth.

He pushes the Bentley faster. Everything in his being is screaming for Aziraphale. Every atom and molecule of his existence, every black and red scale that exists on his serpentine self has just one prerogative in life and that is to protect Aziraphale and keep him safe. He’s failed in that already, but he won’t let Aziraphale finish this alone. Even if it costs Crowley his own life.

The Bentley pulls off the road onto the grass, tires digging down into the mud and going no further. Crowley curses as he clambers out of the car, running up the hill as fast as he can with the wind and the rain pushing him back.

He can’t let Aziraphale fight an Archangel alone, can’t let it end this way. As he gets closer he can see the outline of them, and recognizes the Archangel Michael. They’re locked together now, Aziraphale’s ram’s head holding one of Michael’s swords firmly between its teeth, Aziraphale blocking with his own weapon. The eagle head is straining trying to reach to peck at Michael’s eyes, to gain some form of upper hand even as Aziraphale’s arms shake with the effort of holding Michael back. The bull head is lolling listlessly, gold ichor dripping from its eye socket. The sight of it makes Crowley’s stomach turn. But Aziraphale still holds his own.

He doesn’t think, just runs. One mantra plays through his head, over and over again: _not again, not again, not again._

Crowley had lost Aziraphale once, and he wasn’t about to endure that a second time. Not now, not after everything - and especially not to that _wanker_ Michael.

If he could just get there, could just get to him, he could give Aziraphale a window, an opening to make his move. He runs faster, willing his legs to function like human ones for once in his blasted life. The crest of the hill is in sight and he just keeps running and running and—

Suddenly, the ground beneath him is gone. Black wings stretch wide towards the sky, flapping with a power he hasn’t used since time immemorial. He aims himself for Michael, clenches his fist and feels each of his knuckles crack in turn. His sharp claws dig into his palm, but he doesn’t care. He’s getting closer and closer.

Crowley’s fist connects with Michael’s face with a loud crack of bone. The impact causes Michael to drop one of her swords into the sea. Crowley’s eyes meet Aziraphale’s, meet _all_ of Aziraphale’s, for one fractured moment in time; a moment that moves slow as molasses before Aziraphale moves. With the quickness and strength that only an angel of the Lord can possess, he takes the window of opportunity. He stabs the poker, still alight with holy fire, directly through Michael’s chest.

As Crowley watches her dissolve and discorporate into the ether, he starts to lose altitude. He flaps his wings, but it’s clumsy now, uncoordinated. The lift he had is gone, and panic sets in as he starts to fall from the sky to the rocks below.

“Crowley!” 

Aziraphale doesn’t have time to think, only to act, as he watches Crowley flap his wings helplessly. He drops the poker and angles downwards, flying as fast as his wings can carry him to catch up.

The terror in Crowley’s eyes is visible from here and he can’t — he _won’t_ — let this happen. He pushes down the pain, pushes down everything besides the rush of wind in his ears as he reaches out for Crowley.

Crowley reaches back, shouts something that isn’t audible over the sound of rushing air. Just a little closer, just a little more... Everything stretches out before Aziraphale in this moment, an infinity of the missed opportunities, all of the almosts and not quites. He recalls the one night that could have, should have been something more, his wrist held in warm thin fingers and the happiness of trust. He watches in horror as Crowley’s eyes close, Crowley’s grip on consciousness slipping from him in the freefall.

He reaches Crowley, wraps his own fingers around Crowley’s slender wrist and pulls up, changing course just a few feet away from the jagged rocks that could have been Crowley’s doom. He pulls the demon into his arms, holds him close and safe. His vision is blacking out at the edges and he’s dizzy from the loss of angelic blood. Drops of gold fall from his bull head and hit Crowley’s face, sizzling as the holiness of them touches his skin.

“I’ve got you, darling, I’ve got you.”

Crowley doesn’t answer as Aziraphale soars upwards towards the cliff face. His body is limp in Aziraphale’s arms. The edge is so close, so remarkably close. He falters just a little in the air, eyes trying to shut as his cherubim aspects fade out, unable to be maintained anymore. He can feel the tips of his wings starting to slip back into the ether, the effort of keeping them out proving too much for his body to handle. But he has to make it. For Crowley, if not for himself.

He uses the last of his energy to beat his wings, to push further and throw them both over the edge of the cliff, sending them rolling down the hill through the wet grass and the mud. They land at the bottom, Crowley rolling further away. Aziraphale tries to pretend he doesn’t notice how Crowley’s body flops like a rag doll. He hopes the demon is just unconscious. 

Aziraphale’s wings disappear, the last of his holy form fading out of this reality as he digs his fingers into the mud, trying to crawl his way to Crowley, desperate to see if he’s alive. The mud squelches under his hands, presses into his coat, slick and smelling of earth and petrichor. It’s slow going, every bone in his body hurts, every muscle is on fire. On the celestial plane, the bull lies bleeding, dripping gold into the space between everything, draining him. He wants to close his eyes, just for a moment. Just rest for a bit, not for long. He’s closer now, can see the rise and fall of Crowley’s chest, and he wants to laugh in relief.

Aziraphale reaches towards Crowley, straining against the pain, against the sleep that so greedily wants to overtake him. Crowley is lying too far away, but he's alive and he's breathing. That will have to be enough, Aziraphale thinks, as the world around him plunges into darkness.


	3. Run and Tell All of the Angels (This Could Take All Night)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel awakens, a demon learns to fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to hapaxnym for the beta read on this! And to my lovely partner cassieoh who has killed me once again with her beautiful work! We earn our E rating in this chapter folks.
> 
> This chapter features the finished piece of the sketch that was in the initial claims round, and it is so gorgeous I cannot even begin to talk about how gorgeous it is.
> 
> Just one chapter left to go!

_Aziraphale watches him soaring out among the stars. His broad wings dappled gray and white with stardust, the remnants of the stars he spins from the firmament. He soars so high, up above the Garden, between the clouds and the nebulae. Aziraphale watches his friend as he dips and dives, spinning and pulling the stardust behind him, painting the sky in glittering waves of color and light. Aziraphale hopes the humans will like them._

_His friend turns to him and waves, shouting down to him…_

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouts his name and scrabbles to turn Aziraphale over, to get his face out of the mud as the rain pounds down. “No, no, no, no…” Aziraphale’s aura is still there, small and injured, but still there. He’s badly hurt, they need to get to shelter. 

Crowley hoists Aziraphale to his feet, lifting him with difficulty, but picking him up all the same. He carries Aziraphale to the Bentley, dropping him in the passenger seat before running around to the other side, engine starting before he even has a key near it.

“Stay with me, Aziraphale, just hold on…”

_“…Just hold on,” his bright and shining friend tells him, wrapping an arm tightly around Aziraphale. Soon enough they are soaring up in those brilliant and beautiful stars. Aziraphale takes a risk, reaching out to run a finger along one of the secondaries of his friend’s large wings. His friend holds him tighter._

_Their destination is a galaxy that will someday be known as the Milky Way. Where stars pool around their steps like the surface of water, rippling outwards around their feet, echoing into the infinite darkness._

_“It’s beautiful up here,” Aziraphale says with wide eyes._

_“It is,” his friend says, eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s face. “Here, let me show you!” His friend dips his hands into the blackness, cupping them and capturing the elements. He brings his hands to Aziraphale, letting the starstuff hang in the air between them. The raw firmament is formless in its rotation, but his friend works it into something brilliant. Spinning and pushing and shaping them, like the humans will someday do with their pottery. Soon there are two bright and brilliant stars spinning around each other._

_“They’ll orbit each other, caught in their gravitational pull. And they’ll always be out here, waiting for us to see them someday.”_

_“Someday...” Aziraphale repeats, hope in his voice. He loves his friend dearly, could never leave him truly. Someday his tour of service will be over and he’ll…_

“…Come back, Aziraphale… Don’t leave me here like this…” Crowley cries as he reaches into the ether, spinning firmament like he used to for the stars, trying to bandage Aziraphale’s wounds without being able to truly see them. He’s lost so much ichor, and he’s barely holding on. But Crowley has to do this, has to fix this.

Rain pounds on the windows, thunder cracks across the sky; the world shudders in response to an angel’s agony and a demon’s lament.

“It’s ok, angel, it’s ok…”

_“…Everything is going to be fine,” Michael tells him standing on the wall of Eden. “I gave you this post and this mission because I believe you can handle it. The rebellion is over, and it’s time to move on.”_

_“But I can’t… I can’t remember his name.”_

_“Whose name, Aziraphale?”_

_“I…I don’t…I don’t know…”_

_“Exactly. Everything according to the Great Plan. Now you have your orders, soldier, make me proud.”_

The first thing Aziraphale notices as sleep leaves him is the headache. Angels don’t get headaches, even when they forget to sober up after a long night of French reds and Scotch whiskys. This is a different kind, one that exists in places that he shouldn’t be able to feel right now.

The second thing he notices is that he is not in his shop. This room is small, with only a queen bed and shiplap walls. There’s a little table next to him, with a glass of water sitting on it. There’s a large picture window, open to the air, sheer curtains wafting in the breeze. There’s salt in that air, so he’s near the seaside.

The third thing is a rush of memories. Of his shop, of Michael, of a fight and injuries and Crowley…

“Crowley!” He shouts as he throws the covers off himself, dashing for the door and not knowing what awaits him on the other side. The last time he saw Crowley the demon was barely breathing, drenched by rain. He’d almost died, plummeting to his doom among the jagged rocks at the base of the salt cliffs.

On the other side of the door, he’s met with a short hallway. He walks slowly, unclear who exactly has brought him here. The hall is dark, no real natural light, but then it opens onto a little kitchen. Bright sunlight casts patterns on the countertops through the blinds, the living room looks soft and cozy, if unused. Everything has a very fine layer of dust on it, like it hasn’t been touched in months.

He rummages in a crock on the counter, pulls out a rolling pin. “Someday, old boy,” he says to himself, “You _really_ need to get a new sword.” Aziraphale steps slowly and lightly, trying not to make any noise. There’s a thudding sound from outside, followed by a string of curses he can’t quite hear. He slowly reaches for the doorknob, wanting to meet his captor head on in the back garden.

“B̵̜̍Ē̴͕ ̷̼͂N̸̛̦Õ̶̧T̴͕̃ ̷͇̍A̴̡͘F̶̠̿R̸̝͘A̵̤͝Ī̶̳D̵͙̃!” He shouts as he flings the door open; that earns him a scream from his captor, who falls off the retaining wall and crumples into a mound of bluish-black feathers.

“Crowley! You’re all right!” Aziraphale drops the rolling pin and rushes over as Crowley picks himself up off the ground.

“Am for now anyway, thanks for tha— _oof._ ” Aziraphale can’t help it, couldn’t stop himself if he wanted. He crashes into Crowley with a force that he didn’t intend, wrapping his arms around the demon tightly, intent on never letting him go again.

“Angel…Angel, can’t breathe…”

“Right, sorry,” Aziraphale says as he loosens his hold and steps back. He doesn’t let go, though, and Crowley’s makes no move to leave either. “The last thing I remember is flying up and over that cliff, my dear, and you were… you were… I thought you were…”

“Shh,” Crowley shushes him softly, closing some of the distance between them and wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. They’ve never touched like this, not with this much affection. All of the emotions bubble up and over, spilling out from his eyes. “Hey, it’s okay,” Crowley says calmingly, “Everything is fine now, you’re ok, I’m ok, it’s all right.”

They stay like that for a while. Aziraphale isn’t really sure how long. Just that it feels right, holding Crowley and being held by him in turn. Aziraphale doesn't move until he notices Crowley starting to shift uncomfortably on his feet. He pulls back, taking a good look at Crowley for the first time since he rushed out of the house.

“Crowley, why are your wings out?” Aziraphale hadn’t seen his wings up close in quite some time. They are short, unlike those of any angels Aziraphale has ever known. Black as the night with flecks of blue. “My dear, they’re beautiful.”

“Yeah, well, not much use having them out,” Crowley says as his face goes a rather charming shade of pink, “On account of not being able to fly and all.”

“But then why… at the cliffs?”

“You needed an opening, Aziraphale, and I needed…I needed to protect you. Doesn’t matter anyway, tried jumping off the wall, the roof, out of trees — can’t get any lift again. Not supposed to be able to, anyway. Just thought I’d try.”

Aziraphale lets the words hang there heavily as he takes in Crowley’s disheveled clothes, his mussed hair. Crowley had stayed here with him for who knows how long. Nursed him back to health. Saved him, once again, from his own certain doom. Crowley is always saving him, it seems.

“Well you certainly have made a mess of yourself,” Aziraphale cups his cheek, sending a bit of a healing miracle through his palm. Crowley’s face is covered in cuts and scrapes, no doubt from his various tumblings into the dirt.

“Didn’t have anything better to do the last few months. Just take care of you and flap around like an imbecile.”

“Few months?” Aziraphale gasps, “I’ve been asleep for a few _months_?”

“Bloody needed it, didn’t you? One of your heads was injured, couldn’t get you to wake up. Dragged you to the Bentley, drove like hell, found this little cottage. Brought you in, stitched you up myself.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale sighs and takes Crowley’s hands in his. Just as he feared, they’re burnt from holiness, from the ichor that dripped from his aspect’s wound. He heals them as well, and Crowley lets out a very quiet whine alongside his full body shiver. 

“Didn’t have to do that.”

“Didn’t I? You took care of me, after all.” Aziraphale can’t stop himself from running his thumb over Crowley’s cheek, a gentle touch with a bit of intention behind him. He’s not sure what has gotten into him today, but perhaps he should’ve been doing this all along. Crowley’s face goes red, his mouth opening and closing but no noise coming out, until finally he pushes Aziraphale away.

“Fine then, we’re square.” And with that Crowley was out of reach, stalking over to a ladder propped against the cottage roof.

“Do you really need to try that right now?”

“I know I did it, I just have to do it again. Ought to make it easier, right?”

“Ought to, yes, but clearly it hasn’t,” Aziraphale hurries over and blocks his path to the ladder, “Please do not jump off the roof.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, but doesn’t move to pass him. “Look, I just, I need to know if I can do it again. Because if I can… Aziraphale, if I can, I need to.”

Crowley gives him a pleading look, begging for his understanding. Aziraphale can’t imagine having the gift of flight taken away. What it must have felt like, even in those few charged moments, to have the wind between his feathers once again.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, being bold and looping his arm through Crowley’s, guiding him back towards the cottage, “I’m awake now, let me help you.”

Whatever Crowley had thought Aziraphale’s help might look like did not prepare him for the actuality of it.

They spend the next week pouring over both books and the internet, researching the various species of birds and the function of their wings. Aziraphale even goes so far as to research airplanes. “You never know what will be useful, my dear,” is the only answer Crowley gets when he asks why. 

There are exercises and stretching in the back garden, which Crowley finds frankly ridiculous, all things considered. But it beats jumping off the roof and out of trees; so he humors Aziraphale — bringing his wings out and rotating them and flapping them just as Aziraphale tells him.

Early in the week, Aziraphale had attempted to show him how he flew. It was a solid and logical plan; they are from the same stock, after all. The differences become apparent quickly. Aziraphale’s wings are longer and pointed, meant for speed and power — useful things in his role as a guardian. Crowley’s, on the other hand, are much shorter and rounded. They both eventually have to admit that they just are not built the same.

The air around them is shifting and changing, and it isn’t just the seasons. There’s something different in the arch of Aziraphale’s eyebrow, in the way his gaze lingers now. There’s less space between them, growing smaller by the day. Aziraphale will call Crowley over to look at something, and he’ll lean over the angel’s shoulder to look. The same space, the same air. But Crowley still won’t close that distance. He can’t touch Aziraphale, can’t say what he really wants.

It all comes to a head one night, late into the darkness. Aziraphale is perched on the sofa, scrolling through some database on Crowley’s mobile. Crowley, on the other hand, has four different books spread out across the rug on the floor. He stretches and groans, rolling his neck, feels Aziraphale staring at him as he does.

“What?”

“Nothing, dear, nothing at all.” Aziraphale darts his eyes away quickly.

“You were staring, could bloody well feel it.”

“It’s just… I’m wondering if… “ Aziraphale fidgets, tugging at his waistcoat and the cuffs of his sleeves. In such moments, all Crowley can do is wait. “If it might help to straighten your feathers out?”

Crowley stares at him for a moment, wondering where this simply ridiculous possible solution has come from. Aziraphale just stares back; or rather, he doesn’t. He’s looking anywhere in the room except at Crowley, turning the ring on his little finger over and over again. 

“Meaning what exactly?” Crowley finally says, arching an eyebrow.

“I’m asking if you’ll let me groom your wings, you daft creature.”

It’s not something they’ve ever done, not something either of them would ever ask of the other. Wings are something personal, something you keep close. Wing grooming is either done solo or with someone who is intimately familiar with the other. Or it was in the old days, anyway. Before Crowley was summarily cast out.

“You… You want to groom my wings?”

“That is, I don’t _have_ to, I just thought that perhaps—maybe— it would help things if it were done, and I’m here, and there’s a perfectly good ottoman right there. All you’d need to do is pop them out and I can just…” Aziraphale makes a vague kneading motion with his hands as Crowley’s eyebrow travels further into his hairline, “Oh… never mind.”

“I didn’t say _no_ ,” Crowley says almost too quickly

“But are you saying _yes_?” Aziraphale settles himself back into the couch cushions, already assured of Crowley’s answer. Crowley sighs, snapping his book shut and manifesting his wings. Aziraphale isn’t wrong, per se. It’s been quite a while since he’d groomed them himself. But this kind of thing is intimate, not something you let just anyone do. Especially as a demon who has learned not to ever turn his back on anyone.

But trusting Aziraphale has always come as easy to Crowley as breathing; so he kicks the ottoman to position it closer, settles on it with his legs crossed. “Yes, angel, if you really want to.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers behind him. He’s closer than Crowley thought he would be and the words meet the skin of his neck as a puff of air. He shivers, mentally blames it on the feel of Aziraphale’s hands on the arch of his right wing. “Let me know if I need to stop.”

_Please never stop,_ words threatening to spill out that Crowley catches right before he says them. They sit in the silence of the night, Aziraphale slowly working through his primaries and secondaries with careful fingers. The book in Crowley’s lap lies open, but he can’t concentrate on it. His eyes close and his breathing grows faster under Aziraphale’s gentle hands. Every touch is a bullet, boring a hole through him with what he can’t expect and what he isn’t allowed to have.

Crowley grips his own knees, knuckles going white with effort. He wants to cry, wants to fall down onto the rug and sob until his eyes don’t have tears left. These soft caresses, surgical almost in their precision, are more than he can bear. He doesn’t deserve this, not in his own mind.

“You have such lovely wings, my dear,” Aziraphale sighs behind him, breath hot on the back of Crowley’s neck. “Black at first brush but in the moonlight they catch the most brilliant cobalt. Truly gorgeous. And you clearly take such good care of them.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley starts, but isn’t sure how to finish. His eyes search for something to hold onto, to keep himself steady and still. They land on the open book, turned to the pages about the albatross. Something there clicks in his mind, as he runs a hand down a picture. Memories of the stars and of his life before. 

He flips through the book, anything to keep his mind off Aziraphale’s hands on his scapulars, landing on a Steller’s Jay. Black wings with a bluish tint. Short and stocky, nothing like the albatross.

How much changes when an angel falls? How much of muscle memory is rendered absolutely useless? He leans forward out of Aziraphale’s grip, which earns him a huff. “Angel, look at this.”

Crowley jumps slightly when Aziraphale’s hands land on his shoulders as he leans forward. His face is close enough that Crowley can make out every laugh line, every crinkle near Aziraphale’s eyes, out of his peripheral vision. Crowley wants to lean into him, chase the sunshine of him like a flower. But he doesn’t.

“Steller’s jay?” Aziraphale asks, tracing his finger over the glossy page and the diagram of the bird’s wings. “They do look remarkably similar to yours.”

“I think they used to be something different before. Something much bigger.” He flips back to the albatross, talks of sailing through the stars. Aziraphale watches him with something like rapture, and also something like sadness.

By the time Crowley excuses himself to sleep, they’re on their way to a new plan. Tomorrow they’ll try again, out by the chalk cliffs.

They set out around mid-afternoon the next day, straight through the back gate and onward up the hill to the cliff face. It’s breathtaking, the waves crashing against the rocks down below, the salty sea air. Crowley breathes deeply, and next to him Aziraphale does the same.

“Are you sure about this?” Crowley asks one last time. Aziraphale had theorized that the wind coming off of the sea would help him to gain some lift, and from there it’s retraining the muscles. Allegedly. 

Hopefully.

“Of course I’m sure.” Aziraphale is not very convincing, not with the way he keeps fidgeting. But Crowley will try anything once, and Aziraphale is here, so he’ll be fine. 

Probably.

They reach the apex of the hill, and Crowley’s wings spring forth, immediately catching in the wind and dragging him sideways before he folds them.

“See? A good sign!”

Crowley doesn’t point out that nearly being knocked off his feet is clearly the opposite of a good sign. But he does steady himself and opens them again as he steps up to the cliff’s edge.

“There you are, dear, now slowly. Let the wind catch you, don’t try to catch it.”

“Let the wind catch you…” Crowley repeats mockingly, but does as he’s asked. It doesn’t feel like much at first, just the cold rush of air across his feathers. It tickles in a weird way, and he beats his wings once to shake them out. 

“ _Slowly_ ,” Aziraphale repeats, rolling his eyes. 

Crowley tries again, letting the wing catch on each of his feathers, feeling it caress his primaries and secondaries much like Aziraphale had the night before. After a moment he can feel lift, can feel his feet trying to leave the ground. He leans into it, trying to remain steady. When he beats his wings this time, he doesn’t fall. Instead he rises, just a bit, so he beats them again, finding a rhythm that lets him hover there near the cliff edge. 

“Aziraphale! Angel!”

“Yes, dear, I see! You’re doing it!”

Aziraphale hurries over to him as Crowley turns in the air. His face is unguarded, staring at Crowley with such raw pride and emotion that the demon feels his heart crack in two. Aziraphale steps closer, a wide smile spreading across his face, mirth lighting up his eyes. “I knew you could do it, darling,” he says as he softly and gently cups Crowley’s cheek.

The combination of the endearment and the motion, both infinitely gentle and both far more than either of them have ever let slip before, shocks him to his core. It all comes to a head, here in this moment. The brush of fingertips, the invasion of personal space, the gentle fingers carding through his feathers the night before. Aziraphale is catching up. Crowley isn’t going too fast anymore.

All of the sudden everything is too much, and Crowley falters. His wings go off rhythm and he tumbles. Aziraphale catches him and holds him steady near the edge of the cliff.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks, not letting go of him, and _too much_ becomes an understatement. 

He wrenches himself free of Aziraphale’s grip, wings fading back into the ether as he stalks back towards the cottage.

“Crowley! Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale hurries after him. “Crowley, if this is going to work I need you to focus, I need you to let go.”

But how can he? How do you let go of something like this? How do you stop the torrent of what-if’s and maybe’s and could-have’s and should-have’s? He’s never been meant to have this, to have this freedom. It’s never been his, not since the Fall.

“I can’t, I can’t do it. Might as well give up on it.” Crowley says as he sinks onto the stone retaining wall.

“That’s not the Crowley I know,” Aziraphale says, taking Crowley’s hands in his. Crowley feels the heat rise in his face at the purposefulness of the action. Aziraphale’s hands grip his tight, like he never wants to let go. 

He was never meant to have this either. 

And yet, here Aziraphale is, kneeling in front of him, eyes full of hope and admiration. Aziraphale adjusts his grip, threading their fingers together. It’s not a perfect fit, there are gaps in between. But nothing worth having is ever perfect. Nothing worth having means this much.

“Please, Crowley, talk to me. Tell me what’s bothering you? Tell me what I can do?”

Crowley’s mind plays back over years gone by. Dinners and bickering, first meetings and fights in parks. Six millennia of life. Through it all the one constant, his one unmoving star, has always been Aziraphale. He has orbited and spun around him for longer than he can even remember’ and right now, looking into Aziraphale’s steel-gray eyes. he thinks of curls of platinum blond hair, he thinks of spinning stars, he thinks of an angel with bright eyes who would watch him, who promised to always come back for him. And that angel is here now, standing in front of him, holding his hands and pleading with Crowley to allow his help for this, something that should be the simplest of goals. 

Crowley opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. What words could encompass this? What are human words versus the breadth of eternity? 

“I love you,” Crowley finally blurts out, the force behind it running the words together. Aziraphale stares at him, shocked, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. And Crowley can’t abide the silence here.

“I love you, Aziraphale, and I have loved you for so bloody long it’s more of a part of me than my own skin. I have loved you in Eden and in Rome and everywhere we’ve ever been, there are traces of you in every part of my memories. And I don’t deserve, I have never deserved, any trace of you. But you’re here anyway, and I can’t let go of it, and I don’t care if you don’t feel the same I need you to know that I—“

He’s silenced as Aziraphale lunges forward, captures his lips in a kiss infused with love and desperation. They fall back into the grass, knocking the air from Crowley’s lungs, but he can’t find the energy to mind. Not when his hands are on Aziraphale’s back, not when Aziraphale’s lips are on his. Not when Aziraphale’s weight is pressing against him and the angel is kissing him and then kissing him again and again and _again._

_“Angel…”_ Crowley breathes when they break. Aziraphale’s eyes stay closed as he sighs, resting his forehead against Crowley’s. “I love you.” Crowley whispers softly as he twines one finger lazily through Aziraphale’s hair. “I’ve loved you forever, I never want to pretend I don’t anymore.”

“Surely you know, darling,” Aziraphale says, voice shaky and lips kissed red, the endearment alone enough to make Crowley’s heart soar. “Surely, after all this time you know, there’s never been anyone I could ever love the way I love you.”

Crowley laughs at this. A natural release of the pressure valve that’s been held tightly shut for so very, very long. Aziraphale loves him. Aziraphale _loves_ him. Aziraphale follows soon after, laughter ringing through the salt air like music; it’s now Crowley’s favorite sound in all the world. 

It’s not so different from a night many, many years ago, when they laughed until their sides hurt on the floor of the bookshop. But it is also so very different. Crowley can shift, roll Aziraphale onto his back and kiss him again, hands cupping his cheeks as he does. Aziraphale can work his hands under Crowley’s jacket, the thin layer of the demon’s shirt the only separation as he holds him tight, holds him close.

It’s everything Crowley ever dreamed, and more besides. The push and the pull, the spark of holiness on Aziraphale’s tongue, the slow drag of the moment, savoring each other in ways they’ve never been allowed. Aziraphale can’t seem to figure out where to place his hands. They’re on Crowley’s back one moment, in his hair the next, gripping his thighs in another instant. A pilgrimage of holiness to unholy lands uncharted. Crowley smiles against his lips, kisses him deeper.

They should probably talk about this, but there aren’t words right now. Words can come later; right now he wants to drink of Aziraphale from the angel’s own lips. He wants to commit every last moan and whimper to memory, repeat the motions of his mouth and his hands that cause them over and over until they are second nature. Aziraphale keens when Crowley nips at his neck, slightly-too-sharp-teeth not daring to break skin. He pulls him closer, so Crowley does it again, relishing the sound of Aziraphale’s pleasure and the salt on Aziraphale’s skin.

“Crowley, my dearest,” Aziraphale whines as he grips the fabric of Crowley’s jacket, “I think… I think we should go inside…”

“Hmmm… no, not done yet,” Crowley says, kissing him again. He’s drunk on Aziraphale right now, and stopping is the last thing he wants to do.

“It’s just, this would be a rather awkward spot to make love to you, darling, and I would — _ah!—_ very much like to, if you’re amenable to that.”

Crowley freezes, “Make love?”

“Only if you want to, of course,” Aziraphale says with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “Unless that would be going too fast for you, that is.”

“Too fast, bloody bastard,” Crowley pulls Aziraphale to his feet, barely noticing the steps they take back into the cottage. It’s far too much like walking on air for him to pay attention. As the door closes behind them, Aziraphale presses him into the wall, kissing him deeply again as he pushes the jacket off Crowley’s shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.

Everything is a tangle of hands and teeth and shed clothing as they make their way back to the small bedroom. By the time they get there, Crowley has four lovely new bruises forming on his chest in the shape of Aziraphale’s mouth. He rakes his nails through the fuzzy curls on Aziraphale’s bare chest, something he hasn’t seen in centuries, but looks just as soft as he remembers. And now he’s free to touch, to run his fingers along the golden cracks of Aziraphale’s stretch marks and feel Aziraphale’s skin jump underneath his fingers. 

Aziraphale crowds him back, pushing him down to the bed. The setting sun creeping in through the window catches in Aziraphale’s hair, shining gold like a halo as he straddles Crowley’s lap, kissing him deeply again.

“Angel…” Crowley sighs, unable to quite believe this is happening. But Aziraphale’s lips are trailing over his pulse points, down to his chest. Slow, long presses; like Aziraphale intends to taste every inch of his skin before he’s satisfied. Crowley keens at the thought.

“Crowley, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers against his skin, a low rumble that goes right to Crowley’s already hard cock, makes him roll his hips and search for friction. Aziraphale moans, grinding down against him, only the soft cotton and black silk of their underwear separating them. It’s electric, it’s everything, it’s… it’s entirely too much.

“Aziraphale, wait,” Crowley breathes out, wondering when exactly it was that he started crying. He tugs at Aziraphale’s shoulders until the angel is eye level with him again. “Wait.”

“What is it, dearest? We don’t have to do this now, if you aren’t ready,” Aziraphale takes one of Crowley’s hands in his own, “I can wait for you, you waited for me.”

And oh if it were that simple, if it were anything that simple. But it never is, not with these fears that follow Crowley around. Aziraphale is a bright and shining beacon of everything that is good and right with the world, and Crowley is… well… he’s just Crowley. And in his mind he’s never quite been more than that; has never been worth the adoration that Aziraphale is blinding him with right now. 

Aziraphale is patient, idly kissing each of Crowley’s knuckles in turn, never faltering in his gaze as he waits for an answer. Each kiss reverberates through Crowley’s entire being, makes his toes tingle. He has a sneaky suspicion that Aziraphale might be letting a bit of himself out with each one. Crowley hasn’t felt love in a long time, but it’s suffusing the air in the room and coursing through his veins right now. More love than he’s ever felt, than he can ever remember.

“I can’t…” Crowley swallows thickly, looking for the words, “I can’t be something that you regret.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softens; he cups Crowley’s cheek in gentle fingers, thumb stroking his cheekbone like Crowley is something precious, something to be treasured. Not the broken and unholy thing he is. Aziraphale leans in, presses his soft lips to Crowley’s forehead; a simple gesture that tears him asunder, makes him cling to Aziraphale tighter, nails digging into the angel’s strong back.

“Oh my love,” Aziraphale whispers, so very quiet, just for him and Crowley to hear. “How could I possibly ever regret anything involving you? You are the one constant in my life, the one friend I have had in this life. I have loved you since before I was able, before I knew that I could do so in the way reserved only for the humans. With all of my heart, with all of _me_ , Crowley, I love you. I have loved you since the Garden, I loved you at the end of the world, and when it finally does burn up and disappear I will love you amongst your stars. Forever, Crowley. I will never, ever stop, and I will never ever regret it.”

The words are spoken with a seriousness that Crowley doesn’t often hear in Aziraphale’s voice. Here upon this solid rock Aziraphale will stand, steady in his words and in his convictions, just as he always is. Fussy and clever and brilliant and everything that Crowley has ever loved.

He tries to speak, tries to give back Aziraphale’s words in kind, but all he can manage is a soft and broken sound. Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, pleading silently for him to understand what he means. And, miracle of miracles, Aziraphale smiles at him. He kisses Crowley again, pressing love to his lips like a benediction.

“Darling, let me show you,” Aziraphale’s hands travel lower, a pilgrimage along Crowley’s ribcage before resting on the waistband of his pants. A growl, low in Aziraphale’s throat, traveling from where his lips are pressed to Crowley’s neck, “Let me show you how I love you.”

Crowley’s fingers find Aziraphale’s hair and pull him down into another kiss, full of intention when his words are failing him. Aziraphale hums thoughtfully against his lips, thumbs finding the divot of his hips and pushing under the waistband of Crowley’s underwear. Aziraphale leans back, pulling the underwear with him and tossing them to the other side of the room, leaving Crowley bare and hard to the cold air of the room. 

“What a vision you are,” Aziraphale says with something akin to reverence. With a voice that should be reserved for sunrises over high mountains that sparkle on oceans, not for the skin and bones of Crowley’s naked corporation. His arms cross over his chest, almost of their own accord, as he turns his face into the pillow wanting to hide from the weight of Aziraphale’s gaze.

“M’not,” He protests weakly.

Aziraphale tuts at him, hooking a finger around Crowley’s chin, bringing him back to meet his eyes again. “Gorgeous thing you are, I could write sonnets to your loveliness.” Aziraphale kisses him deeply, stealing the breath from his lungs. “All the words of all humanity in my shop, none of them worthy of how lovely you are.”

Aziraphale wraps one hand around Crowley’s cock, stroking him slowly. Crowley gasps aloud, thrusts into the angel’s grip. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, one moment on Aziraphale’s hips, then in his hair, then clawing into the angel’s back as Aziraphale touches him. His lips are on Crowley’s neck, gentle nipping kisses as Crowley’s breath grows heavier under Aziraphale’s ministrations.

He whines when Aziraphale stops —honest to Someone _whines_ — but it’s short-lived as Aziraphale presses a miracled-slick finger to his entrance.

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, more than a little breathless himself. He’s staring at Crowley with something like awe, a look Crowley has seen but has never had leveled at him in this way. Aziraphale’s lips are red, his hair is mussed, and Crowley is the one who did that. Aziraphale’s cock draws a hard line in his underwear, and Crowley can already see a wet spot of precome forming at the tip and he has the sudden euphoria that this is him; that _he_ has caused this reaction in Aziraphale, this desperation in his angel, this so very human need.

Crowley has been barred from things holy and divine, cast down from Her light since time immemorial; but here, in this bed in this cottage, what can he say about the sight in front of him? What words can describe seeing this angel — _his_ angel, all his, always has been — looking at him with such love and devotion?

“Gosh,” is all he manages in a hushed whisper. Aziraphale smiles down at him from on high, kisses him deep and slow as he pushes in. Crowley’s body moves of its own accord, hips rolling trying to take Aziraphale in deeper, breath punching its way out of his useless lungs. Aziraphale is methodical, working him open slowly. He adds a second finger, stretching Crowley further. It’s painful in its pleasure, the slow thrust pushing against Crowley’s prostate, lighting sparks along his spine. His arms are around Aziraphale’s neck, clinging to the angel like his life depends on it. Aziraphale chuckles against his skin, the both of them besotted and just wanting to be closer, closer, _closer._

“Aziraphale, please, I need you… please,” Crowley babbles into Aziraphale’s hair, pressing his face into the softness of it, breathing in deep the scent of Aziraphale’s cologne and shampoo. He knows what Aziraphale smells like, has always known. But here, this close, it overwhelms his senses in the best way.

“Yes, my North Star, my only.” Aziraphale’s fingers slip out of him, and Crowley grinds down on nothing. Aziraphale doesn’t make him wait long, pressing the tip of his cock to Crowley’s entrance, holding Crowley’s hips steady with one hand and cupping the demon’s face with the other. He pushes in slow, lets Crowley acclimate to him. Aziraphale’s cock is thick and short, and the stretch is incredible, like being split in two and then sewn back together. Crowley moans as Aziraphale brings them flush together, connected wholly and fully, Aziraphale’s cock pressing against his prostate at an angle Crowley knows will be delicious as soon as the angel moves.

And move Aziraphale does, kissing Crowley deeply again as he pulls out, gripping him tight as he pushes back in. He sets a steady and punishing pace, chasing his release even as Crowley barrels towards his.

“Precious one, love of my life,” Aziraphale says as he thrusts back in hard, every snap of his hips hitting just the right place. Crowley’s cock is trapped between them, rubbing against Aziraphale’s stomach, dragging through the soft and fluffy hair that covers him, no doubt leaving a mess of precome in its wake. 

“Angel, can’t, ‘m gonna,” Crowley gasps out as his release builds, coiling like a viper in the pit of his stomach, ready to spring out and strike.

“Yes, my darling, please,” Aziraphale cups his cheek again, hazel eyes steady while they look into his own yellow ones. “Come for me, my love, my wonderful, my only.”

The desperation in Aziraphale’s voice is what does it, pushes him over the edge. A white hot heat coursing through him, tearing him apart and remaking him in turn. His toes curl and his back arches as he spills out between them, going boneless in the aftermath of his release, feeling well and truly satisfied for the first time in his long existence. Aziraphale quickens his pace, and with three more thrusts follows. He groans low when he comes, filling Crowley up, keeping himself buried deep inside of him.

They both breathe heavily for a moment, taking time just to touch and to grin at each other. Aziraphale’s weight on top of Crowley is grounding, a welcome thing. It makes him feel safe and loved as they trade slow kisses in the dark of night.

Eventually Aziraphale’s softening cock slips out of him, and Crowley can’t help but cling to the angel after it does. He can touch now, can hold and kiss and everything he’s ever wanted. He doubts he’ll be able to let go any time soon.

“How do you feel, love?” Aziraphale asks with a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Amazing,” Crowley breathes, sinking even further into Aziraphale’s embrace. There’s a miracle, though he’s not sure who did it, and both them and the sheets are clean again, with a soft tartan quilt draped over the both of them.

“Crowley, dear, you must know. You are and always have been worthy of love… worthy of _my_ love,” Aziraphale’s voice wavers slightly and he squeezes Crowley just a bit tighter. “You showed me that things could be better, trusted me even when no one else did. There are not suitable words, in all the lexicon of human creation, to truly, _truly_ describe how much you mean to me. You have always been enough, Crowley, and I need you to know this, and know my heart.”

Crowley burrows in closer, hiding his face in Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley’s never been good with words, but Aziraphale knows him. _Has_ known him; better than anyone else for longer than anyone else. Aziraphale knows his silences, few and far between as they are, and can read them — even in this brave new world it seems.

“Sleep, my darling,” Aziraphale says, pressing a kiss into Crowley’s hair, “And dream of whatever you like best.”

As he sleeps, Crowley dreams of the stars.

  



End file.
